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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29986908">The Fire Within Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiamondTethers/pseuds/DiamondTethers'>DiamondTethers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Ways To Defeat Alduin, Angst and Romance, Avoiding The Main Questline But In Fanfiction, Blood and Violence, Dovahkiin and The Boys, Elder Scrolls Lore, Eventual Canon Divergences, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Life Debt, Modded Skyrim, Morally Ambiguous Dragonborn, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Questionable Priorities, Skyrim Main Quest, Survivor Guilt, Team Dynamics, Thalmor Being Assholes (Elder Scrolls)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:02:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,534</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29986908</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiamondTethers/pseuds/DiamondTethers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ingrid’s eyes widened, her companion’s voices pulling her from the brooding spell and returning her attention to the conversation at present. She cleared her throat, sinking deeper into her seat in an attempt to feign nonchalance. “I’m sorry Lucien, you were saying?”</p><p>The Imperial scholar took a deep breath, slightly exasperated, one might say, and repeated what had gone unheard, “I said, it’s been a year since we fought Alduin and I must say that I’m surprised.“</p><p>“Surprised by what?“</p><p>“Well,“ he smacked his lips, “you didn’t pursue any further means to defeat Alduin… until now, I’d like to think, and likewise he hasn’t made an appearance on us either.”</p><p>Ingrid’s brows furrowed. “Until now… ?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn &amp; Kaidan, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Kaidan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Fire Within Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Up, up the mountain we go, but the path to the summit’s blocked with snow. Another strong gale and it might throw me and my friend to the—”<br/>
<br/>
“<b>Lok Vah Koor!</b>”<br/>
<br/>
Inigo’s tune halted abruptly, skies above and earth below him trembling in reverence of the Thu'um. For a moment it almost seemed as if the mighty voice tamed the freezing winds but, alas, the blizzard wouldn’t bend. Never before did the words of power fail its caster. Never before did the heavens oppose her clangorous demands.<br/>
<br/>
She stared up into the endless dreariness as millions of ice crystals whirled around her entire being, rippling at the edges of her hooded cloak and freezing the wispy ends of her ashen hair. It was cold, so incredibly cold that not even her Nord blood would be able to repel it much longer. Her face contorted in a clash of scepsis and dread. How was this possible? Where did this ungodly storm come from all of a sudden when mere hours ago the winds barely lay above a cool breeze?<br/>
<br/>
Even Inigo appeared somewhat dumbfounded; when the Khajiit of odd-coloured fur first learned of his friend’s special talent, he never could’ve imagined that a day might come where her innate gift would fail her. It made her smell of deeply rooted disenchantment, regardless of his temporary loss of smell by courtesy of the ungraceful weather. He knew her well enough to recognise her frustrations. Though now, seeing as she didn’t move at all, Inigo decided to approach her in an attempt to free her from that bewildered ensnarement. However, rather than making progress, Inigo half-stumbled, causing his tricorne hat to fly off with the help of a particularly fierce gale. A protesting yelp escaped him then.<br/>
<br/>
“<b>Wuld Nah Kest!</b>”<br/>
<br/>
Ingrid, or Dovahkiin as people would call her these days, let no time be wasted as she spurted after the leather headdress, capturing it in one apt motion. She returned the hat to its owner once they met wading through the thick layers of snow, feeling a sense of relief for at least the whirlwind sprint went smoothly. Inigo too felt himself at ease, for his own reasons.<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you, my friend. For a moment I thought I’d seen the last of my hat,” he said, or yelled, gratefully, though most of his words were swallowed by the storm anyway. Ingrid merely nodded in response.<br/>
<br/>
The storm raged on unforgivingly, turning the usually so simple task of climbing the stairs to its peak into a futile endeavour. Unless they fancied getting blown off the mountainside, it would be wiser for them to sit it out and wait for the weather to turn.<br/>
<br/>
With sloping shoulders, Ingrid turned round, descending the hundred or so steps they managed to climb so far and returning to the village of Ivarstead. Inigo followed her deftly as ever, keeping a hand at the brim of his tricorne as to prevent it from taking flight again.<br/>
<br/>
Once it came into view, they veered into Vilemyr Inn, finding it unsurprisingly empty both inside and out. It was entirely devoid of the usual faces which could be seen on any other day, with the singular exception of Lucien whose earlier moaning over the fierce winds drove Ingrid half-mad with desire to strangle him. Instead, she had recoiled from the murderous notion and suggested he rest up at the inn until Inigo and her return from High Hrothgar. Or, much earlier than that. She chose to ignore the nigh chastising look he sent her way upon their entering, whereas Wilhelm welcomed them warmly. Little clusters of snow would soon melt off her cloak as Ingrid took a seat by the hearth, followed by Inigo after he treated himself to a sweetroll from Wilhelm’s selection of freshly baked pastries. Lucien too scooted closer to his chilled companions, a goblet of wine at hand and mouth eager to speak.<br/>
<br/>
“I told you—”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, spare me,” Ingrid protested, cutting him short. “You said making the climb during this weather is a dumb idea. I heard you earlier.”<br/>
<br/>
Lucien appeared positively thrilled to learn his words hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. “That is precisely what I said. No need to be so glum about it. The storm will pass and we’ll be on our way again.”<br/>
<br/>
She sighed in defeat. “Right, it’ll pass.”<br/>
<br/>
Comfortable and homely as the tavern was, the impermeable outer blizzard left her no peace. Like thunder her mind rumbled, pondering on possible causes for a tempest of such magnitude that not even the clear skies shout could put a damper on it. She then thought of Paarthurnax, wondering how he and his kind dealt with adverse weather conditions. At any rate, a spontaneous dragon attack seemed unlikely. Perhaps she should let her irritation go and enjoy the warmth for the time being.<br/>
<br/>
She took a gander at Inigo who just so happened to be devouring the last bite of his treat, looking mildly startled as Ingrid practically caught him in the act of licking his fingers clean. She smirked with faint amusement, not expecting what Inigo intended to say now that his mouth was no longer sticky with sugar.<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t think that the storm is the main problem here, Lucien,” said Inigo, and Ingrid pulled a face.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, what now?” Lucien enquired immediately. “I felt the shouting.” Yes, felt. For he repeatedly insisted her voice held such power that it was physically perceivable rather than just loud, unintelligible noise. “You tried to snuff the storm out and it didn’t work, is it that? Surely, even the mighty powers of the legendary Dragonborn must have their limits, no?”<br/>
<br/>
A legitimate question, perhaps. One that kept Ingrid preoccupied while her expression soured further.<br/>
<br/>
Two years had passed since the Greybeards’ voices first called for her, urging her to climb the seven thousand steps which led to their secluded abode far above the rest of the world. She revealed herself to them as the Last Dragonborn, a fabled hero whose arrival they anticipated greatly. She never considered herself a supporter of fate prior to that development. In fact, she never believed there’d be anything for her to gain in terms of lasting value during her lifetime. Dragons were a myth, the existence of one born with a dragon’s soul no more than a fairytale passed from one generation of Nords to the next. As a child, her eyes would sparkle upon hearing these stories, though that glint of premature fascination soon faded, only to be rekindled with the greatest of fear when the World-Eater himself descended from the skies while some smarmy Imperial Captain pressed Ingrid’s head onto the executioner's block. She never felt as powerless as she had that very moment, trapped between two unrelenting forces and death the only realistic outcome. Yet, she lived. And somehow, the bitter aftertaste her involuntary adventure in Helgen had left her with made its way into her mouth again now, no thanks to the outside tempest she failed to bend to her will.<br/>
<br/>
“She’s not listening to me, or is she?” Lucien asked dryly.<br/>
<br/>
Inigo snickered. “Not a chance, my friend.”<br/>
<br/>
Ingrid’s eyes widened, her companion’s voices pulling her from the brooding spell and returning her attention to the conversation at present. She cleared her throat, sinking deeper into her seat in an attempt to feign nonchalance. “I’m sorry Lucien, you were saying?”<br/>
<br/>
The Imperial scholar took a deep breath, slightly exasperated, one might say, and repeated what had gone unheard, “I said, it’s been a year since we fought Alduin and I must say that I’m surprised.“<br/>
<br/>
“Surprised by what?“<br/>
<br/>
“Well,“ he smacked his lips, “you didn’t pursue any further means to defeat Alduin… until now, I’d like to think, and likewise he hasn’t made an appearance on us either.”<br/>
<br/>
Ingrid’s brows furrowed. “<em>Until now</em>… ?”<br/>
<br/>
Lucien’s overt enthusiasm reflected perfectly in the way he nodded then. “I’m assuming it’s the reason why you want to return to the Greybeards, yes? To seek their guidance, have a chat with lovely Paarthurnax and then, you know, summon Odahviing to press him for Alduin’s whereabouts. Like everyone agreed on during the peace council.”<br/>
<br/>
Inigo’s pupils darted between the other two, unnerved, not unlike Ingrid whose frowning face had taken a turn for the worse. None of which seemed to dishearten Lucien as he continued, “I know, I know. We’ve been to a lot of Dwemer ruins since, for which I’m quite thankful, I might add, and fought countless Draugr, for which I am admittedly less thankful, but… the point is, shouldn’t we, or you rather, return to the main objective? Killing Alduin? Liberating the world from his terrors?”<br/>
<br/>
Of all the redeeming qualities Lucien had, talking this much wasn’t one of them. It was his special way of pressing Ingrid for answers, compelling her to spill whatever remained unsaid, or ideally, to take some sort of action.<br/>
<br/>
For a moment, she deliberated telling him to leave it alone, for Lucien would undoubtedly have woven his nigh reprimanding speech further if not for Wilhelm, who skillfully interrupted their rather one-sided chat in favour of offering two tankards worth of refreshments to Inigo and Ingrid.<br/>
<br/>
“A drink, mistress. It’ll warm your belly.”<br/>
<br/>
“Not a moment too soon.” She reached for the tankard, filled to the brim with heated mead. Bringing it to her lips, she then blew gently over the steaming liquid, cooling it so that she could take a few sips. The taste was rich and fragrant.<br/>
<br/>
She smiled gratefully. “Thank you Wilhelm. You have spare rooms for the night?”<br/>
<br/>
“Aye, how many will it be?”<br/>
<br/>
Ingrid shot a quick glare at Lucien who she knew to hate Inigo’s catlike snoring.<br/>
<br/>
“Two rooms,” she replied decidedly. “One for me, the other for my companions.”<br/>
<br/>
Wilhelm nodded. “So be it, mistress. I’ll see to it right away.”<br/>
<br/>
The innkeeper withdrew back behind his counter, leaving her to Lucien’s sullen visage, and Inigo, who drowned a gleeful grin in his own mead tankard lest the laughter bubbling in his throat be heard aloud.<br/>
<br/>
Distractions put aside, Ingrid knew in her heart Lucien was right to call her out. Alduin remained a threat, a dormant one however. It almost seemed to her like an unspoken treaty of their own in which the black-scaled dragon wouldn’t meddle with the Dragonborn’s affairs as long as they didn’t interfere with any of his schemes. Domination, no doubt. He sought to reshape the world, reinstate himself as the cruel ruler he’d once already been — a figure of fear and worship. While Ingrid hadn’t seen Alduin again since their encounter at the Throat of the World, she saw the signs of his endeavours to resurrect his dragon brethren, whose souls in turn Ingrid would devour if the occasion arose. If not, she would later hear news of entire villages falling victim to the dragons’ attacks. And each time, Lucien would give her one of those distinctive glances, long and lingering. Wordless pleas to prevent the worst before it could happen. The civil war strained the lands of Skyrim and its people enough as it were. She knew it had to be her, she knew the task of defeating Alduin was hers alone. Regardless, she would find further means to avoid this unwanted responsibility that did nothing but gnaw on her already sore conscience. She didn’t fear the World-Eater, neither did she fear what the populace of Skyrim might think of her slagging efforts to apprehend him. The true reasons for her reluctance were veiled in mystery, hidden from everyone, including her two closest friends and companions.<br/>
<br/>
Lucien’s tongue burned to pick up on their topic prior to Wilhelm’s interruption. Unfortunately for him, Ingrid’s experience in the past had taught her better than to give him room to speak when she didn’t want to hear it.<br/>
<br/>
After another hearty gulp of mead, she set the tankard aside, sliding off her seat and finally freeing herself from the baggage she’d been carrying on her back until now. The stuffed backpack hit the floor with a loud thud, and Ingrid stood with her arms crossed, humming thoughtfully.<br/>
<br/>
“You're right, Lucien.”<br/>
<br/>
“I am?” He sounded genuinely surprised.<br/>
<br/>
“Of course you are,” she conceded softly, loosely gesturing one hand toward the heavens. “This ruthless weather won’t get us anywhere. Alduin must be taken care of, though not under these circumstances.”<br/>
<br/>
Another excuse in the brewing, he reckoned. Not that he found himself in the proper position to protest, lest Ingrid change her mind about him tagging along from one adventure to another. Lucien would be lying if he claimed not to find enjoyment in their ventures. Besides the thrill of near-death experiences, he had grown quite comfortable with his privilege. Not many were able to boast of fighting side by side with the Dragonborn. Men would pay good money for such an honour, which in fact, Lucien initially did too. What he had deemed a handsome compensation later paled in comparison to the hassles Ingrid had taken upon herself to show him to the core of every small heap of leftover Dwemer civilisation they came across. Yet in spite of all of this, he thought the occasional nudge back toward Alduin couldn’t hurt. Obviously he’d assumed so wrongly, given the generous liberty Ingrid took in interpreting the words he used to convey this message to her favour. A shame, really. Now he barely even had the chance to speak up about it before she continued.<br/>
<br/>
“First things first, alright? I’m not keen on wasting my time here while Kyne has a snowstorm whirling about. There are better things to do until the mountain clears up. Here, let me show you something.”<br/>
<br/>
She fished a half-gnarled leaflet from her backpack, a museum pamphlet she’d acquired at the Moorside Inn a few months past. Ingrid straightened the crumpled parchment out and handed it to Lucien with no small amount of smugness curling her lips upwards.<br/>
<br/>
Lucien’s eyes briefly skimmed over the pamphlet, grimacing in disbelief. Inigo leaned over the armrest of his chair to catch a glimpse as well.<br/>
<br/>
“The Mythic Dawn Museum? That’s where you want us to go?”<br/>
<br/>
She shrugged “Why not? It sounds much nicer than clearing out dungeons swarmed with Draugr, doesn’t it?”<br/>
<br/>
“Certainly, but—”<br/>
<br/>
“Anything sounds better than a tomb full of smelly zombies,” Inigo chimed in.<br/>
<br/>
“Look at this,” Ingrid bent lower, pointing a fingertip at the third line of the leaflet. “A history of the cult that toppled the Septim Dynasty. This information could prove useful to us, if you ask me.”<br/>
<br/>
Not the worst point she made there, one Lucien found himself unable to argue against. He hated to admit it, but he wouldn’t mind a peek at this museum himself. She had probably only meant to put him in his place, but more than that, he let himself be baited. And judging by her growing smile, Ingrid knew she’d gotten Lucien right where she wanted.<br/>
<br/>
Inigo clapped his hands together excitedly. He knew it too.<br/>
<br/>
“I made my choice, boys. We’ll be on our way again. Tomorrow. To Dawnstar.” And far, far away from the path leading to Alduin.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I recently started what feels like my hundredth Skyrim playthrough and prompty decided to write a corresponding story to how my Dragonborn evades killing Alduin like the plague and other misadventures. I have no regrets ... yet. Furthermore, I needed an excuse to flesh out a twisted Kaidan romance.</p><p>Many thanks to shakespeareslark for proofreading this despite knowing virtually nothing about TES.</p><p>Inigo, Kaidan and Lucien Flavius belong to their respective creators.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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